Of Donors and Monster Trucks
by All-things
Summary: It was common knowledge that donor banquets were a gift from the Devil. Who could blame House and Wilson for skipping one to preserve their sanity?


Title: Of Donors and Monster Trucks

Author: all_things314

Pairing: Wilson/House friendship

Warnings: none

Rating: G

Summary: It was common knowledge that donor banquets were a gift from the devil; it only made sense that House and Wilson had skipped one in order to preserve their sanity

A/N: Hey, all. I wrote this story for the "Everybody Lies" challenge hosted by jezziejay and flywoman at LiveJournal (dot) com. A big thanks to my beta reader, pisces317. I hope those who haven't read this will enjoy it.

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><p>It was late June in the town of Princeton. Well, technically, it was late June all around the world, but that isn't really essential to this story.<p>

As the sun shone down on the people of this fair city, they couldn't help but smile at the cheerfulness that their local star casted on them. That is, everyone except those of the Diagnostic Department in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Now, to be fair, they had good reason to express gloom on such a fine day. I'm sure you can guess what that reason is too.

For those who have no clue, let me enlighten you. At the moment Dr. Gregory House knew what was wrong with their current patient and his ducklings (as he so fondly called them) didn't. He was just waiting to see if they could guess what the problem was before the patient died. Of course, House wouldn't let the man die, but he found it beyond amusing to watch his fellows scramble around like headless chickens trying to find the correct answer. Then on top of that, he had been mocking them the whole time. He simply loved dangling his intelligence in front of their faces, taunting them with something he believed that they would never have.

I'm sure you can sympathize with doctors Chase, Cameron, and Foreman.

"Listen to that little voice in your head that says, 'do a biopsy.'" House mocked the nearest fellow to him, Dr. Chase.

With a heavy sigh, Chase said, "I think we should do a biopsy."

Feigning a gasp, House ridiculed them even farther. "Oh my, Chase's Little Voice is a genius! Who would have known?"

Collectively, the team's aggravation levels rose a little higher. I've often marveled at how long these fellows have lasted without quitting or being fired. They've shown more self-control then most that have been brave enough to endeavor a fellowship with the great Gregory House. But then, their patience is nothing compared to that of Dr. James Wilson, Oncologist Extraordinaire.

Speaking of which, here comes the man now. The atmosphere of the room immediately changed from tension to relief and Wilson had been friends with House an adequate amount of time to notice. The ducklings were hoping that the fresh bait which had just walked through the door was tempting enough to distract the beast so they could swim away. All Wilson wanted was a cup of coffee.

"Ah, the Prodigal Son has returned," House exclaimed.

If Wilson had any common sense, he would have turned tail to make his escape then and there. But, alas, after years of friendship with someone who was more 'prodigal' than he was those common senses had dampened a bit. He risked the journey through the lion's den for that much needed cup of Joe.

Cautiously he entered, sword ready, shield raised, and his feet spread in a battle stance.

"You do realize that I'm Jewish, right?" Wilson pointed out. Of course, he knew that using a parable said by Jesus was House's way of taking pot shots at his faith.

House, who was in an unusually chipper mood, (maybe that was due to the weather?) smirked as Wilson, mug in hand, made his way to the coffee. He looked at his fellows, a little annoyed that they were still there when they had a biopsy to preform, and dismissed them.

Away, swam the little fishies.

I know that, being the writer of this story, I have the power to have mercy on our favorite oncologist and send him on his way, unscathed. But where would the fun be in that, I ask you?

"You know, I've been thinking—," House started.

"Never a good sign," the brown haired man commented while pouring liquefied energy into his red mug.

It was astounding how Wilson's usual good manners seemed to dissolve around House. That was something House was proud of, that he could strip the gentleman of his gentleness. Not the he'd ever say so. The crippled doctor continued as if he'd never been interrupted. "—that we should get out of here."

Poised with the mug inches from his lips, Wilson looked at his friend with suspicion. If you were friends with Greg House, you'd do much the same. "Why?"

"Because it's boring here," House replied as if in were obvious.

"And where would this exciting place be?"

"I was thinking a road trip sounded nice."

"You hate road trips."

"Maybe I had a change of heart?"

Wilson scoffed. House was daft if he thought Wilson didn't know better. "What about Cuddy? I don't think she'd take too kindly to having two of her department heads scamper off somewhere."

"I've already got that figured out. Since you're staying with me it wouldn't be too odd for us both to come down with a sudden case of the flu."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the donor's banquet tonight, would it?"

"Oh, that was tonight?" House replied with fake innocence and a hint of sarcasm, "Must have slipped my mind." Of course he was lying, for if there was anything that he hated more than stupidity and weakness, it was donor banquets. Filled with pompous lards and weaseling snobs, they were. Not to mention they were always boring. They were like watching documentaries about the 'Missing Link', listening to the scientist spew out grueling details about a bone fossil then go into a commentary about the life of a caveman. The only good thing about donor banquets was the free food. I personally don't blame House for doing everything in his power to avoid them. It does sound mind-numbing, doesn't it? I don't think Wilson was too fond of them either, since he only went to them out of obligation.

"You told Cuddy you would be there," reminded Wilson.

"I've told Cuddy a lot of things," House countered, "Everybody lies."

Rolling his eyes heavenwards, Wilson prayed to God to give him patience. Cuddy would not be happy if House didn't show and when Cuddy wasn't happy, nobody was, especially Wilson. "House," he said slowly, "you're going to the banquet and you're going to be nice."

Well, since Wilson put it that way… House stood up straighter and squared his shoulders like the defiant child everyone believed him to be. "No."

"House, you better be there or…"

"Or what?" House cut in, "You're going to spank me then send me to my room like a bad boy?"

Pausing, Wilson considered this scenario. As appealing as it sounded, it wasn't the best way to deal with this over-grown teenager. "Or," he continued, stressing the word, "Cuddy will be on my hide for your absence."

Which would be most likely true. Whenever someone was having bothersome House problems, they all came running to Wilson, the only one whom House actually listened to, if not obeyed.

"Okay, then come with me," the older man offered.

Not expecting that response, the younger man stared at his friend. If you knew him well, you would have seen the conflicting thoughts warring in his chocolate irises as obligation and self-preservation battled for dominance. It was his duty, as Head of Oncology, to attend each and every donor's banquet, but if he went without House then he was in very real danger of dying from tedious ennui. Duty or survival? That was the question.

After a few minutes, Wilson decided he needed more data in order to make a decision. "Say if I came with you, where would we go?"

House, who had been watching his friend debate with himself, couldn't hold the smirk that formed on his lips. It was easy to tell that the poster boy was hooked. "I was thinking Atlantic City. I hear they have a monster truck rally going on tonight."

Thus the resolve of James Evan Wilson crumbled. There was no competing with the opportunity to watch trucks with big tires squashing little cars.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Cuddy was a smart woman, but not smart enough. She should have known that just because Wilson said that they both were sick doesn't mean that it was true. But she didn't and the two boys were now on their merry way to Atlantic City.

After arriving, they went straight to the stadium holding the monster trucks where they witnessed a spectacular show of destruction and mayhem. Girls have always wondered why boys like these types of things. It's because it makes them feel empowered. It makes them feel like a man. That's why men like monster trucks and such.

With the roaring of motors still playing on their eardrums, they made for the nearest bar from the rally. It was night now and the lights of the city were shining in all their glory, lighting the paths of the sleepless people that meandered around on their own agendas and plans. Getting drunk seemed to be high on the lists of most people by the amount of them in the small bar our Princeton boys found.

Ordering their drinks, Wilson and House went to sit in a booth at the far end of the cigarette smoke filled room. The dim lights and 70s music added to the mood as various humans came to have a good time or forget they even existed. Alcohol did that to people. It could make you feel like you could rule the world, until you woke up with a metaphorical jackhammer in your head.

While the world went on with its rotation around the sun and its many people slept or went about their day, two men sitting in a bar were in a little world of their own. Oblivious to the goings on of the people around them, House and Wilson consumed their drinks while they laughed about many things. At the moment, they were comparing the entertainment levels of being here in Atlantic City to if they had gone to the donor's banquet. Atlantic City won hands down.

"Cuddy would kill us if she knew we were here," Wilson volunteered from his side of the grey, speckled booth table.

"That's why we make sure she never finds out," House said while licking the sticky beer of his fingers. The sloppy bartender got it all over the side of his glass mug.

Setting down his own mug, Wilson nodded his agreement as a bemused smirk worked its way onto his face.

"What?" the diagnostician asked.

"I was just thinking of what her face would look like if she did find out."

The image of frowned eyebrows, downturned lips, and crossed arms flitted across both men's eyes. Then House shared in on the mischievous smirk. He and the dean were ever engaged in a war of dominance. Cuddy striving to prove that she was the boss and House endeavoring to show her that no one was superior to him. This latest event was a point for his score. It was a pity she would never know.

Just then, a big man with a belly the size of watermelon staggered drunkenly into their table knocking both their drinks right onto their laps. Cursing, House wiped at his now beer drenched jeans.

"Watch where you're going you, tub of lard," he snapped.

If Wilson had just a tiny bit less self-control, he would have done a face-palm, rolled his eyes, and groaned all at the same time. He wasn't happy with the incident any more than House, but the 'tub of lard' was easily two times each of their sizes. This wasn't going to be pretty.

Stoned to the point of no return, Tub of Lard swayed drastically as he addressed the insult that had been thrown his way. "Who'sh you callin' 'tub 'f'lard?'" slurred the big man. The over-whelming smell of booze and body odor wafted across to assault the nostrils of the Princeton men causing instinct to respond with the gag reflex.

"Holy—," House choked as he clamped his hand over his nose, "Do you even know what 'bath' means?"

"House," Wilson pleaded through his own hand that had moved to protect his sense of smell from over-load as well.

It was well known among those who knew House, that his mouth had loose hinges. This design flaw had often gotten him and his friends in much unwanted trouble. Now was no exception.

The clenched fist that flew towards House's face told Wilson that their night had just taken a turn for the worse.

The fight was quick with minimal property damage, just the table Tub of Lard landed on when Wilson had shoved him away from his friend. The result of the alcohol induced bout was landing the visitors from Princeton and the big citizen of Atlantic City in a prison cell together sporting colorful bruises. Thankfully, Tub of Lard (whose name turned out to be Larry Matthews) was passed out on one of the two cots in the chamber. Our boys were sitting on the other bed opposite Mr. Matthews waiting for their doomed fates to get over and done with.

Of course the police had to call Cuddy and tell her that two of her doctors were in the Atlantic City Prison for wrecking the property of Joe Sander's Bar.

To say that the woman was less then pleased would have been an understatement. She was furious, more so with Wilson. House was House; this type of thing was to be expected from him. But Wilson was the responsible one. He should have been the one to stop House from causing trouble by making him come to the donor's banquet not aiding and abiding. It was close to going on twelve, so she decided to let them stew in jail for the night before bailing them out tomorrow. Satisfied, she rolled over underneath her bed covers and went back to sleep.

Unaware, but strongly suspecting their bosses actions at such a late hour, House and Wilson sat on their cot in silence, both lost in a whirl wind of their own thoughts.

The younger of the two was worrying about what dastardly punishment their boss had in store for them while the older reflected on the events that had passed in the last ten or so hours.

"That was fun. We should do this more often," the diagnostician commented.

Wilson looked at the man as if he'd gone crazy, which some believed wasn't too far from the truth. "Really? Cuddy's going to kill us and all you have to say is 'that was fun'?" he exclaimed.

House made a face like he was in deep thought, contemplating all the cosmic ideas and philosophy ever known to man, before he answered, "Yup."

The oncologist shook his head in disbelief. That was one constant factor about their friendship: they never ceased to amaze each other.

"Oh, c'mon, don't tell me that impending doom has dampened the results of our sick leave?" House questioned.

"This_ is_ the results of our sick leave," the other man pointed out with a sweep of his hand.

"Oh-pff, you know what I meant," the scruffy doctor huffed.

Silence descended upon them, like one big swoop from a hawk intent on catching its meal. After a few minutes, Wilson's mouth did the tiniest of upturns.

"I guess it was worth the truck load of clinic hours we'll, no doubt, be receiving," he admitted softly.

Beaming in one of his true smiles, House slung an arm over his friend's shoulders. "That's the spirit!"

_"A good friend will bail you out of jail; a true friend will be sitting next to you saying, 'Wow, that was fun!'" -Anonymous_

The End


End file.
